


Collections

by flamearrow109



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Books, F/M, Failed Relationships, Knights and Ladies Trope, Love, Loving Sex, Parallels, Reunions, Sewing, Storms, Teaching Skills, sanrion - Freeform, sanrion appreciation week 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamearrow109/pseuds/flamearrow109
Summary: Various short fics for each day of Sanrion Appreciation Week this year, each sticking to a central word or theme. Will be updated daily.Day 1 - PariahDay 2 - TeacherDay 3 - PowerDay 4 - TomesDay 5 - MythDay 6 - Kink





	1. Day 1 - Pariah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa, Tyrion, parallels, and an unexpected meeting in the Godswood.

Tyrion Lannister’s strongest memories were never of the pleasant times of his childhood - such as the day his brother Jaime had taken him out to the training yard and put a sword in his hand, hadn’t laughed as the little boy struggled to lift it - but of the sour memories, the bloody scratches and faded bruises and sheer terror as he beat uselessly on a locked cellar door, the sorrow of seeing something he loved ripped into pieces.

Sometimes he’d dreamed of becoming Lord of Casterly Rock one day, after Jaime had joined the Kingsguard; Tyrion had sat, tracing his fingers over the spines of books in the library and staring up at elaborately decorated vaulted ceilings, a beaming smile stretching across his lips as he imagined owning all of it, from the dungeons to the cliffsides to his mother’s gardens he loved so much. But that dream was squelched just as thoroughly as his heart, for Lord Tywin had made it quite clear that Tyrion did not deserve even to live, and would not have made it this long had he not been born with the name Lannister.

Tyrion had spent the night in the library that night, for his room was far too cold, even with all the candles burning bright. A fort of books separated him from the rest of the family, and at his young age it made him feel safer somehow, set apart from the world.

Sometimes he had wondered how Joanna Lannister would have been, had she lived to know him; would she have been soft and kind, or hard and cruel like his father? There were days where he imagined both in equal amounts, but any woman who had planted and cared for such a beautiful garden of flowers had to have room in her heart for her smallest and dwarfed son, surely.

That little garden was where he spent most of his time, there or the library; there wasn’t anywhere else he felt at home even within his ancestral halls, and wasn’t it strange that nobody else ever went there? Piles and piles of books taller than Tyrion himself were beginning to collect dust, their pages firmly closed and unread, and the vibrant colors of his mother’s flower garden were beginning to fade and wilt ever so slightly.

But they were Tyrion’s little sanctuaries, there and the cliffsides where he could watch the deep blue waves roll and crash against the rocks in furious plumes of seafoam and salt-spray.

It hadn’t gotten much better as he’d become a man grown, not even once he’d left the Rock.

Tyrion had always been set aside from the rest of House Lannister, almost as if he were some dark secret that might disappear if secluded away for long enough, but now he’d truly set himself apart in the eyes of the gods, if there were any to speak of. But it had felt so good, in a way, to have the final power over the great Tywin Lannister, to at last confront the man who’d wished him away for simply existing.

It had felt good to send that first crossbow bolt flying into his father, and even better to see the second strike its fatal mark. And yet, in doing so, watching the pool of blood spread, he’d marked himself an outcast for more than just his birth, for now he was a kinslayer as well as deformed.

—

Sansa Stark had always been the pride of Winterfell, a beautiful vision of copper hair and icy blue eyes just like her lady mother; her manners were perfect, her skill with a needle and thread even more so, and the storybooks and songs of graceful maidens and their handsome princes had always captivated her, filling her dreams and hopes for the future with excitement.

Traveling to King’s Landing had seemed like a blessing at the time - but oh, how she regretted it.

Joffrey had had her slapped and beaten until the skin of her lips burst and she bled, bruises blooming up around her eyes like macabre badges of her abuse. He’d pointed a loaded crossbow at her and made her plead for her life while she was surrounded by a ring of Kingsguard knights, but there was nothing knightly about them. She’d never felt more alone than at that moment, steel biting deep into her flesh and yet more fresh bruises blossoming, her fingers clutching to keep the ragged remains of her dress decent.

It had been the King’s own uncle who had saved her then, intervening and patiently helping her to her feet with a gentle touch. But he was still a golden lion like the rest of them, and she a wolf in the lion’s den - she couldn’t trust him, no matter how kind he seemed to be. Sansa was alone in this place, surrounded by enemies, an outcast branded as a traitor’s daughter.

It had been a relief to be released from her betrothal to Joffrey, but then she’d been foisted off on the black sheep of the Lannisters, a little lion in his own right - a Lannister all the same, and again, surely all Lannisters wished to rip her to pieces more than they already had, to see her wounded, bleeding and crying. She wouldn’t show weakness this time, could never, or they’d find a way to torment her even more.

She’d been humiliated to be married off to a man who couldn’t even reach to cloak her, nor kiss her - not that she wanted him to. For a moment, she resented him for it, and resented even more so how he seemed determined to drink away the night. But he’d protected her once more, threatening to castrate Joffrey in one heart-stopping moment that had Sansa thinking she’d be a widow before she was bedded.

And then he’d refused his legal right to her, crashing into a deep sleep on the uncomfortable chaise and leaving her cold, confused, and unsure what to think.

Then there was how he’d made every effort to get to know her, to make her as comfortable as she could be given the circumstances; they’d walked through the gardens together during that tiny bright spot of warmth between their wedding and the murders of her brother and mother. She’d told him about her childhood and, for a moment, it had felt good to confide in someone, even though she wasn’t sure if she could trust him.

But he’d been kind to her, and gentle when nobody else had, even when the opposite seemed to be expected of him.

—

Sansa Stark stands in Winterfell’s Godswood, surrounded by nothing but the cold winter’s air, the trees, and the relative peace of knowing the worst of it all is over.

She’s lost in her thoughts, at least until she’s interrupted by the soft crunching of feet in the snow behind her, and Sansa turns, the harsh set of her brow softening as she sets eyes on Tyrion. She hasn’t had much time to speak with him since he and the new Queen arrived at Winterfell (although alright, that’s a lie, she’s had all the time in the world to speak with him). Their brief marriage has not been a topic of discussion, only pleasantries and feeble witticisms that serve to skirt around the important issues at hand. But Sansa trusts Tyrion, and she’d like to get to know him better, she thinks.

She’s glad to see he’s survived his trials and all the wars that came and went.

She knows now that he has always been just as hated in King’s Landing as she, an outcast within his own family, and that their short-lived marriage had been as much imposed on him. Tyrion Lannister is a good man, for all his faults, and life has been more than unjustly cruel to him, just as it has been to her.

She can’t help but think back to what Margaery, her one friend in King’s Landing, had said, seemingly a lifetime ago. (Well. Not her **one** friend.)

There had been truth to the other woman’s words, Sansa knows it now - at the time, she’d been so sure Margaery was only trying to make her feel more at ease with the prospect of this forced marriage, but no, now she sees things in Tyrion that she has never before, clouded by her perception of him as a Lannister and her desire for a storybook knight.

His face has not changed, save for the thick and dark beard that has sprung up, but it is endearing to her and attractive in its own way; there’s a certain beauty in the cut of his jaw, in the curve of his lips. Whereas his two-toned eyes once unnerved her and filled her with apprehension, she now knows them to be quite expressive, and gentle towards her.

Tyrion is kind, and that is worth more than any beauty.

“Margaery was right.” Her words come almost breathlessly as she studies him, breath puffing out in a visible plume in the frosty air. But oh, she hadn’t meant to speak out loud - !

The look of pure bewilderment on Tyrion’s face is almost enough to make Sansa burst out in giggles; he’s frowning slightly, eyebrows pointed upwards and lips set in a moue of confusion. She doesn’t move to explain herself, though, and for a moment there is silence except for the wind rustling through tree branches like whispers. Sansa folds her gloved hands in her lap, and waits. The hem of her skirt is beginning to dampen from the melting snow, but somehow she doesn’t mind.

“About what?” He sounds uncharacteristically tentative, head tilting to the side in what she recognizes as a sign of his puzzlement over a situation.

“You _are_ rather handsome.” Throwing up her Lady of Winterfell face for a moment in her uncertainty, she stands with posture drawn tall, all stiff and hard angles like the steel she’s had to become. She could cut him if she tried, just as easily as a sword, she realizes. (For all that he is, and all that he is not, Tyrion can be quite vulnerable when it comes to his heart.)

He seems to be thrown off by her words, his cheeks tinging pink so faintly it could be easily be mistaken for either the cold or harsh winter winds whipping against them, but Sansa smiles to see it. Being able to fluster Tyrion Lannister, however slightly, is an accomplishment few can boast of.

Whether he’s flabbergasted or simply at a loss for words, Tyrion doesn’t speak, and she’s glad of it. He’s still quite the mystery to her, though she trusts him, and knows him to be a good man - she has to admit, she isn’t quite sure how to proceed around her former husband. But for now, in the godswood, it’s easy to pretend they’re the only two people in the words, even if only for a moment.

She doesn’t have to think about propriety when she raises a hand to his cheek to make him look at her, his mismatched black and green eyes speaking volumes more to her than his mouth ever could. Tyrion shivers, the involuntary motion barely noticeable beneath the thick layers of fur bundled around him so tightly that he appears to be swallowed up by them, but Sansa notices, and she can’t be sure if it’s from the cold or something else entirely.

He looks like he wants to say something - most likely a self-deprecating jab or glimmer of humor - but she doesn’t care to hear it, not now, not from him, so her fingers press themselves softly to his lips, and she feels him freeze. There’s silence except for the faint cawing of a crow in the distance, and everything is as it should be.

Once Tyrion had said they were perfect for each other, and even though he’d likely meant it as an irony, perhaps it was true after all.


	2. Day 2 - Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion attempts to learn a new skill. Sansa helps, although her presence may prove a distraction.

There are few things Tyrion can’t do once he puts his keen mind to the task, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let **_sewing_** get the better of him.

With one of his shirts spread out over his lap, he has a good view of the ugly tear in the fabric that has resulted from an unfortunate brush with a more low-lying tree branch; between thumb and forefinger he holds a thin needle, a spool of tightly-wound thread in Lannister crimson balanced on the palm of his other hand.

This is a skill that is entirely foreign to him, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s never needed it before - Lannisters have **servants** for this sort of thing, and he’s not entirely sure how to begin, although he supposes the end of the thread _just might_ have to go through the hole at the blunt end of the needle.

Tyrion feels slightly on edge, though, because Sansa’s there beside him, watching him with softness in her blue eyes. He’s not sure how this is going to go, no matter how good of a teacher she might be, and he doesn’t want to disappoint. She has a piece of (presumably scrap) fabric on her own lap, but she sits with her hands folded on top of it, one leg crossed over the other, and makes no move.

“How are you women all so good with this?” Tyrion grumbles halfheartedly, holding up the needle and examining it pointedly as if it is a tiny sword - which, he supposes, it _is_. A sword for mice instead of men, or perhaps only little men like him.

Sansa frowns with a little purse of her lips, tossing her hair behind her with a noise that sounds lost somewhere halfway between a snort and a rebuke.

“We are good with our hands,” she answers simply, “and what better thing is there to do with hands?” He can think of _quite a few_ better things. From the look of the gentle smirk hanging around her lips - gods, he’s really had an influence on her, hasn’t he - she too knows the hidden meaning to her words.

Willing down his damned libido (they have all the time in the world for that later), Tyrion turns his attention back towards the tear he’s attempting to repair in his sleeve, and the sharp needle he’s managed to thread, with only minor difficulty. From his peripheral vision, he can see Sansa lean across the table to look at him.

“You’re doing quite well, my lord.”

Gone are the days when his title was only meant as a courtesy, and she’s smiling at him with obvious encouragement - still, Tyrion scoffs lightly.

“ _Yes,_ I’ll be sure to charm all the handsome young knights with my impeccable darning capabilities. They won’t be able to resist me, I’m afraid - you’ll have some competition.”

Despite his good-humored boasting, Tyrion’s words can’t quite be bolstered by his actions; he’s absently piercing the torn fabric with the needle with no true direction, subsequently narrowly avoiding stabbing himself in the pad of a thumb. He’s managed to get the deep red thread tangled hopelessly around his fingers in his distraction, too, and frowns down at them in frustration.

“I appear to have been ensnared.” With the scantest hint of a grin at his own predicament, Tyrion lifts up the little project with nothing more than the thread twisted around his hands and allows it to dangle. The needle clatters to the table with a tiny noise and rolls as it comes loose from the line of red.

Sansa laughs at that, but he knows she’s not laughing at **him** , not truly; he can’t help but join her, a deep and melodious chuckle escaping his throat as emerald and obsidian eyes glimmer bright. His wife is covering her mouth with one dainty hand, trying to contain her peals of laughter, and he tries his best to arrange his features into a countenance of mock indignance.

“Here - like _this_.”

She stands and bends to lean over him, her long Tully red hair swooping over him in a lemon-scented curtain. Her hands settle over his smaller ones in one fluid movement, skin soft and silky smooth against him as she wraps his suddenly-stiff fingers around the piece of fabric and skillfully guides him to untangle the mess he’s made of the thread. Sansa leads him to press the needle through the material in a neat in, out, in, out motion - until there’s a neat, even row of stitches.

Her hands linger on his for perhaps longer than is strictly necessary, and Tyrion is uncomfortably aware of the dryness of his mouth, and the silence hanging between them. Women flinch at his touch, as a general rule, unless beckoned by the metallic glint of coin - and they _certainly_ don’t caress him in even so innocent a way as hand-holding, not of their own volition. And yet Sansa, his sweet Sansa, is different, and there’s suddenly a certain sparking warmth between them that Tyrion can’t write off as simply due to the crackling embers of the fireplace behind them. It’s early in their tentative new relationship and rekindling of their marriage, but in that moment he thinks - no, _knows_ \- it would take very little for him to fall to his metaphorical knees for her, hard enough to abrade the skin. No matter how hard he’s always tried to build an impenetrable shell around it, Tyrion’s heart is exposed and easily bruised; he’s never quite been able to destroy that childish fantasy of being loved for true.

He doesn’t dare let himself imagine that Sansa could be the one to love him, someday.

“Why, my lady, I never knew you had such skill with a needle and thread - you astound me every day.” Although there’s laughter veined like gold through his tone, it’s true at the same time; it’s as if he’s learned something new of his wife each time the sun sets below the horizon, as clichéd as it might sound. She has talent, a sense of humor, and kindness all wrapped up in beauty, and oh, he could love her.

Perhaps he already does, somewhere sealed deep away within his cracked heart.


	3. Day 3 - Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion’s apartment is hit by a power outage during a particularly rough storm, but Sansa doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s a storm raging outside, all whipping winds and torrential surges of rain and flashes of lightning bright enough to light up the entire sky like some eerie night-light, but inside Tyrion’s apartment it is warm, and dry, and he’s perfectly content to lie half sprawled out on the sofa, with Sansa’s head nestled comfortably into his chest.

Her fingers are pressed gently into his chest too, hooked into the v-neck of his shirt; his hand cups her shoulder, moving north to stroke her coppery hair every so often. This has become a well-recognized habit over the time they’ve been together, their little stay-home movie “dates” they both cherish so much, no matter how many times they’ve done it.

There’s a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his lap, rocking back and forth every time Sansa dips her hand to reach it. Everything seems perfect, and in fact Tyrion can even feel sleep tugging heavily at his eyelids and threatening to pull him under -

\- until the lights suddenly go black, and the television cuts out in a jarring absence of sound that makes his green and black eyes fly open. He sighs heavily, throwing his head back against the cushions of the sofa in a bounce of golden locks. A flash of lightning crackles in the distance as if to mock him.

“Fuck.”

Sansa sits up and rubs at her eyes, making a soft noise in protest - she hadn’t been asleep either, not truly, but this sudden power outage is quite rude, she thinks. She shifts beneath the fleecy red and gold (and honestly, it isn’t as though she expected any other combination of colors) blanket that is draped over both of their laps; pulling the hem up to her chin and burying her nose in the softness of the fabric, she can’t help but press her cold feet to Tyrion’s exposed thigh. His indignant yelp makes her giggle, too, and she rolls into him.

The bowl of popcorn slips from his lap and goes flying somewhere with a loud crash that suggests the possibility of glass breaking, but Tyrion is not about to get off the warm couch - and leave his warm girlfriend - to investigate in the dark. His facetiously miffed snort ruffles Sansa’s hair in a short burst as he wraps an arm around her as best he can in the dim light allowed by the window.

“This is… _awkward._ ”

It is, in a way; at the beginning of their relationship, Tyrion had always insisted on the lights being turned completely off whenever they slept together, believing she would prefer it that way. It had taken months for her to convince him otherwise, although this - and the awkward silence echoing in the room around them - reminds him of it uncomfortably.

Sansa hums in agreement and raises her head, and in the momentary sliver of moonlight from the window he can clearly see the silhouetted profile of her face.

“I’m sure it’ll be back soon.”

He doesn’t reply, but nods - realizing too late she can’t see the motion - with yet another disgruntled sigh. There doesn’t seem to be a need for words at the moment, but at the exact same time it feels a bit strange to sit here in the dark abyss that is his silent apartment. He can feel her warmth against his side; it’s grounding, in a way.

Moments pass, feeling like decades.

He opens his mouth to speak at last, tongue feeling thick and dry, but she manages to beat him to it. The delicate silence cracks, splinters, then shatters.

“I love you.”

Sansa doesn’t sound fully sure of herself, although it isn’t the first time she’s said it - perhaps the second, or third, but not the first. Tyrion is glad for a moment that the lights are out, though, for his cheeks are quickly growing warm, and are surely stained bright pink. To cover himself, he gives a brief cough and shifts against the back of the sofa.

“I-I love you too, Sansa.”

He thinks she might be grinning, somewhere there in the darkness out of his sight, but he catches a brief flash of movement, and then she’s kissing him, and oh, he **loves** her, he truly does.


	4. Day 4 - Tomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa thinks about the impact books have had on her life, especially those tales of gallant knights she’d loved so much.

Sansa had always favored the decorated books with the delicately weaved tales of lords and their ladies, those stories to make a person dream - ever since she’d first discovered them in Winterfell’s extensive library.

During her childhood years, she had spent many a long hour reading those stories hunched over a desk in the candlelight of her bedchamber, her fingers tracing down the pages over and over again until the writing and colorful pictures began to fade. Her mind would swirl with excitement, imagining herself as a beautiful maiden swept away by the glorious, handsome knight on horseback. Sometimes the man she would imagine had brown hair, other times black, and blond more times still; his eyes could be blue or green, his build lean or burly, but he was always tall.

Joffrey had seemed a perfect physical representation of those brave fictional men, tall and handsome with the golden hair of his mother’s house with green eyes that shined like emerald, and not seeming the least shred like his old, **drunken** , _whoring_ king of a father. The books’ promises had seemed to come true, Sansa had thought with a rush of exhilaration at the thought of being his Queen - she could barely hold back a smile at the thought of it. She didn’t hold it back later in her chambers, so late at night the rest of the household was as silent as the grave; the mere thought of being a Queen beloved by the commonfolk kept her awake, as did the hope for a love the likes of that which her parents had. 

Sansa’s journey to King’s Landing had been a long and tiring one, but the new sights and sounds along the way were exciting, and of course she had her previous heavy tomes as always - wrapped carefully in grey velvet just beside the handmade dresses she cherished so much. They’d been meant to stay packaged away for the duration of the trip, but she couldn’t resist tracing her fingertips down the worn spines, reading for the millionth time the words she very nearly knew by heart.

Even still, she barely looked at them in the capital, preferring to live her own tale than read the original, lifeless fantasies within the pages. She could write her own stories now - perchance there would even be songs about her and her unparalleled love.

Once Joffrey had executed her father, though - her mind unable to erase the images of the dripping blood and the sword and the angry crowd, her betrothed taking obvious cruel pleasure in such an unnecessary bloodthirst - she’d very nearly ripped one of the deceitful, treacherous books to pieces. It would feel so satisfying to see the pieces fly like snow through the air, the words that had led her so far astray torn and ruined, no longer able to weave their web of lies. But then she thought of where the tomes had come from, which reminded her of her _father,_ and suddenly blue eyes were welling with fresh tears. She’d collapsed on her unfamiliar bed, missing her father, and her sister, and her mother, and _Lady,_ and even her half-brother whom she’d never particularly liked - and mourned, but there was no one to hear her wolf howls. 

Later, she wondered how she had ever found Joffrey to be attractive; his appearance had not changed, but Lannister gold now seemed so **sinister** , his green eyes calculating her pain and his lips never far from either a cruel twist or a petulant pout that suggested he was about to throw his equivalent to a regal tantrum. Sansa was reminded for a split second of her youngest brother Rickon, but that only made her wistful, so she sealed it away.

She soon discovered that even “true” knights were untrustworthy, or vicious, or kingslayers without honor like the King’s own uncle Jaime Lannister. Sansa had been wary of his other uncle, too, for he was a Lannister like all the rest in this den of lions. “ _Halfman,_ ” they called him, and it was an apt description, Sansa thought. His hair shone like spun gold, the same as his siblings, and his eyes were just as green - well, _one_ of them was; the other was **black** , and Sansa wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

And yet Tyrion Lannister had been the only one to make her believe in the stories again, the only one to make her believe that knights could still exist. No, that wasn’t _quite_ right; perhaps not a knight, then, but a friend. A good man. She’d learned that quickly.

Sometimes she regretted leaving him behind in King’s Landing. Perhaps she could have grabbed his hand, tugged her along to wherever life would take them - but Littlefinger would likely have killed him, she realized, and so it was a moot point. But she still thought about Tyrion, months after the time she’d been able to call herself his wife; the crimson ruby of her lion ring glinted on her finger long past the time it would have been appropriate for her to take it off, or perhaps even discard it. But Sansa kept it, even while she’d been forced to wear the ring of another.

Sometimes she wondered what had happened to those books she’d treasured so much as a girl, too - had they been lost? Stolen? Destroyed? Or were they just as she’d left them, only now covered in a sheen of dust? - but never as much as she wondered what had become of Tyrion.

She’d been filled with more relief than she’d revealed as she discovered he was alive, and Hand of the Queen to a Targaryen claimant at that. Sansa missed him.

And in the end, after all the wars and battles and dragonfire and death, he was just as insecure standing before her as he had been the day he wed her in the Sept - and she hugged him, clutched him to her chest as she fell to her knees in the snow and dragged him with her; he ended up sprawled across her, frozen from more than just the cold.

\---

Sansa blinks as Tyrion closes the cover on the book he’s just finished reading to their daughter, a little girl with her father’s golden blonde hair and her mother’s brilliant blue eyes. She’s sleeping soundly now, a thumb in her mouth and the other arm wrapped around the plush direwolf Sansa made for her third birthday. Tyrion stands and tucks the picture book under his arm, his hand finding his wife’s arm as she leans over to gently sweep aside their daughter’s hair, her touch lingering on the little girl’s cheek.

Her other hand - gold and ruby ring still shining on her finger - brushes over the swell of her belly gently, as if to protect the new life within. Their second child was not entirely expected, although thoroughly welcome; Sansa enjoys being a mother, and despite everything still desires a large brood of children, no matter their _hair color_ or _eye color_ or **_size_**. She knows there is a good chance that some of their children will be born dwarfed, but it is of no concern to her - they will be lion pups, wolf cubs, all the same. She will love all her children fiercely, as she’s grown to love her Lannister husband. 

Storybook knights do not exist, she thinks later that night as she nestles her head into Tyrion’s chest (his chin tucking into her hair and his hand protectively cradling their child), but good men do, and she’s been lucky enough to find perhaps the best. That is the one thing, at least, she can thank Tywin Lannister for, Sansa thinks with a hint of a smirk as she drifts into the welcoming arms of sleep.


	5. Day 5 - Myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion thinks back on how the meaning of love has changed for him over the years, and how much it had seemed like a myth.

Love had seemed like such an abstract concept to a young Tyrion, although back then it hadn’t truly felt like an unattainable myth. Even knowing what he was, even after being shown so many times that he wasn’t able to even be loved by his own family, he’d assumed that one day he’d find a woman who was able to accept his appearance, or at least look past it.

Jaime and Cersei had found love (never mind that it was with each other); why shouldn’t he? The dwarf had read about it, and **thought** he knew what it was supposed to feel like, although he wasn’t quite sure - was it supposed to _hurt,_ a tearing at the splitting seams of his heart? Or was it a spreading warmth that would diffuse through his entire being, body and soul? 

With Tysha, there in the little inn with his head in her lap and gentle fingers coursing through his hair, Tyrion was sure love must be a warm and encompassing feeling, a smile sweeping softly over his lips as he nuzzled his face into her lower thigh. He had a _wife,_ and they’d soon make a home together, and a fantasy of being loved. 

And yet that dream, like so many others, had been dashed, and then Tyrion knew love was meant to hurt. Either that, or it was a myth just like his happiness, although the thought of that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Whores were simpler; he held no delusions of love with them as he grew older, only coin and the pleasure he’d feel to sink between their legs. 

Shae, although a whore who desired his gold just like the rest, had rekindled a glimmer of that hope for love - and somewhere along the way their relationship had transformed beyond the norm, into something closer to that feeling he’d so desired.

And yet once more he’d experienced love as a ripping pain, standing there so defeated in a courtroom opposing a sea of angry faces, not least of which was Shae’s as she marked him guilty of regicide. Tyrion hadn’t meant to kill her, later, but she’d been there - nearly nude in his father’s bed, moaning _my lion_ into the pillow as she’d done for **him** \- and she’d grabbed the knife off the bedside table, and before he’d known what he was doing he’d clenched tightly the chain of gold links, her hands weakly beating at him before all life fled from her. He’d cried for her then, for the metaphorical blood on his hands and the love they’d shared, however briefly.

Love was a myth.

Then there was Sansa, her rigid steel posture bending as she stooped to embrace him for the first time, her coldness melting. They grew close over the next couple of months, perhaps half from her comfort around him and half necessity from the war - a gentle camaraderie had sprouted tentatively, with Tyrion calling her a _friend_ (while suppressing the latent feelings hovering just under the surface). And then she’d kissed him one evening within Winterfell’s walls, a warm fire crackling in the background and a book quickly dropping from his hands, hitting the floor with an audible **thunk**.

Once the war ended, they’d renewed their wedding vows in Winterfell’s Godswood, and this time it could not be said that the marriage was forced, nor that it went unconsummated. Love was fickle, and oftentimes cruel, but he could no longer call it a myth; with his face tucked into Sansa’s hair and the sheer bedsheet tangled around their bodies, there was still some flicker of that old hope within his torn-up-and-stitched-together heart.


	6. Day 6 - Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Sansa share a desire to be loved, and it’s easy to find that in each other.

Yes, he loves her, Tyrion thinks, and isn’t it a pity that he’ll never be the silver knight she deserves.

Her lips taste like the lemon cakes she favors so, and they are soft and gentle against his own - tentative in view of her relative virtue and his experience, but gaining courage. He doesn’t deserve Sansa, he knows - but despite everything, she has chosen him, and he is hardly about to complain or refuse her. 

She’s asked him to teach her about love, and about the pleasure a man can bring a woman, his wife - he’s happy to do so, and although sex is a rather new part of their relationship, he’s always delighted by her eagerness to explore it with **him**.

Sansa is quite new to _kisses_ as well, but Tyrion doesn’t rush her, allowing her tongue to shyly dance along the seam of his closed lips. He opens them to her at long last, drawing in breath through his scarred nose and closing his mismatched black and green eyes.

It’s a rather chaste kiss as far as Tyrion is concerned, compared to some whores he’s had - but Sansa is no whore, she is highborn and lovely and cares not for the coffers of gold beneath Casterly Rock, she desires him for who he is, somehow (Tyrion can’t fathom why). 

It must be uncomfortable for her to bend to kiss him as she is, although Sansa makes no mention of it; she steps out of her dress without removing her lips from his, leaving her clad in only smallclothes and a tight pink corset that both supports her breasts perfectly and inflames Tyrion’s desire.

She’s smiling at him encouragingly as she breaks from the kiss, although he can tell she’s still nervous, beautiful and near-virginal as ever; his hands are at her neckline now, fingertips drawing gentle patterns into the silk of her skin, and she gives a pleasant shiver. (If he’s not mistaken, there’s a whisper of a giggle mixed in with her soft inhalation.)

The light pink corset hugs her tightly, wrapped around - and pressed tightly to - her skin as Tyrion himself would like to be; she turns for him, eyes sparkling with an emotion he is too flummoxed by to even try to place, and he finds himself standing on his tiptoes to press a kiss between Sansa’s shoulder blades.

The laces fall apart easily beneath his touch, pink fabric giving way to reveal the creamy softness of Sansa’s skin; her curves are tantalizing, seeming almost made for his small hands to hold.

His fingers slide nimbly down her spine, tracing every vertebra as lightly as the wind - and when she moans out _oh yes,_ his name rolling airily from her tongue, Tyrion thinks he just might come undone, body and mind.

When his fingers reach the band of her smallclothes they linger there for a moment longer, brushing against the smooth skin beneath and making her laugh delicately. At last he slides them down her silky thighs, watching almost breathlessly as she steps out of them, completely nude except for her pink blush and her long copper mane of hair. 

Sansa’s hands find his smaller ones, and then she’s tugging him forward toward their bed, and for perhaps the first time Tyrion realizes he is still - rather regrettably - fully clothed. He moves to remedy this with an almost inhuman speed, only pausing for a moment as he reveals his body to her. She’s seen it before, and has never once mocked him for it, so he isn’t sure why he still hesitates to stand in front of her without the safe barrier of his finery, yet he does all the same.

There is no humor or ridicule in her eyes on this night either, only desire pooling in her icy blues along with something deeper that might even be love, and Tyrion adores her for that. She’s lying back on the bed now, her blush growing almost as bright as her hair, and when he crawls on top of her she greets him with a smile and a tentative wrap of her arms around him. He’s tempted to blow out the flickering orange flame of the bedside candle, but Sansa’s hand rests on his arm before he can lean over to do it, and the thought soon slips from his mind in favor of better things.

Better things, like how she rises up to kiss him, fingers light on his chest before guiding his hand to the dip of her waist. Better things, like how she wiggles against him as his kisses trail hot like wildfire down her belly until he’s between her legs, her thighs slung over his shoulders and her slender fingers clenched tight in his locks of gold. She pulls sharply as he swipes his tongue in a particular way that makes her see metaphorical stars, and swiftly gasps as he lets out a deep and reverberating groan into her slick flesh.

Tyrion pulls away as he begins to feel her squirm for release against him, her fingers tugging on his hair once more in pure sexual frustration, this time; desire smoldering in his eyes, he kisses his way teasingly back up her stomach, taking a moment to pause at her perfect breasts.

Sansa’s skin is soft as ever here too, flushing beneath Tyrion’s touch as he cups her chest in his hands, tracing his thumb over a pink nipple so lightly she would be forgiven for thinking she imagined it. With lips working at the side of her neck soft enough to be painless - yet hard enough to leave a mark in the morning - he shifts his weight upwards until she can firmly feel the weight and hardness of his cock against her hip. 

She too shuffles beneath him, sitting up and wrapping slender fingers around his shoulders; he can’t help but follow her direction, clever quirk of his lips growing ever wider as he allows her to switch their positions. Propped up against the plush pillows of their bed, Tyrion helps guide her to straddle him, although Sansa doesn’t lower herself just yet. Instead she runs slender fingers down his chest to find his cock, cupping his cheek with her other hand and kissing him deeply. He’s groaning under her with just a few gentle touches, and Sansa at last decides to humor him, nibbling at her lower lip as she seats herself firmly on his lap. He’s thick inside her, stretching her in all the right places without a hint of pain; she finds his hand quickly and wraps her fingers about his, letting out a tiny gasp as he shifts his hips experimentally. 

This is only the third time they’ve done this, and always with Tyrion atop her, yet he certainly doesn’t mind the change, nestling his head into the soft pillows and rubbing the thumb of his free hand into the crease of her hips. It doesn’t hurt that he now has a good view of her lovely breasts swinging before him, either.

When Sansa at last moves, it’s with a tentative roll of her hips that has Tyrion groaning in combined pleasure and need. She dips to kiss him tenderly, releasing his hand, and begins to rise and fall gingerly; with each hesitant thrust, he rises up to meet her, until she’s feeling her climax build disappointingly quickly, her hand carding through his blond hair affectionately and occasionally tugging.

Perhaps the desire to be loved, body and soul, isn’t exactly a kink, but they certainly both share it, and it’s all too soon that they’re shuddering out their pleasure together, crying out to whoever might be nearby to hear.

“I love you, Tyrion,” she murmurs quietly after; her reddening cheeks are buried in the pillow, but Tyrion can still see them, and he can see in the fading candlelight that the tips of her ears are flushing too, and her shoulders, and her chest. But he’s struck mute for a moment, spellbound by both her beauty and the words that have just spilled from her lips - his heart nearly stopping in his chest for one breathtaking moment, he grazes his fingers along her side and smiles. 

“I love you too,” his finds himself saying with a raw and vulnerable note to his voice, wrapping his arms around his wife and feeling his heart swell as she snuggles into his embrace. Sansa’s fingers find his, entwining around them and thumb rubbing gently over the gold lion band on his hand. Before losing himself to the welcome arms of sleep, Tyrion considers for a moment what it would be like to have a child - a little lion or wolf pup - with Sansa.


End file.
